


Demanding

by Hezjena2023



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Character Study, DAPromptExchange, Demands of the Qun, Drabble, One Shot, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 06:28:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18515794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hezjena2023/pseuds/Hezjena2023
Summary: Bull is reminded of each of the members of the chargers that he lost on that afternoon in the Storm Coast. Set roughly between the Demands of the Qun and Trespasser without any major spoilers for the latter.This was a drabble inspired by Dragon Age Prompt Exchange on tumblr 'If Krem and the Chargers were sacrificed, what is the fallout? Bull has a lot of time alone and a lot of time to grieve privately. Did he push it all aside or did he let himself feel the loss?'





	Demanding

**Author's Note:**

> Link to prompt -  
> http://dapromptexchange.tumblr.com/post/184011922104/if-krem-and-the-chargers-were-sacrificed-what-is

"She was called Skinner," he decides to tell Sera one evening, utterly out of the blue, back in the Herald’s Rest.  _ It’s been a long week and he doesn’t quite know why he’s telling the elven archer _ .

Sera gives him a doubtful look, "with the..." she trails off, but holds her hands out in front of her breasts and squeezes the air. "Dits." She said with a proud little smirk.

He couldn’t help the tug of a smile, but he sobers, "she was from Orlais," He says steadily twisting the conversation back and twisting his neck painfully to see the whole bar. "Val Royeaux."

"Eeew," Sera says pulling a face, and wrapping her little hands around a large mug of frothy ale. "Slimy Val, that’s no fun."

"Don’t think it was that much fun." He admits, thinking back to the night he found Skinner, a lance wound through the bottom of her leg.  _ Some human men, barely more than boys really _ , had thought it was a load of fun to ride through the alienage, testing their new weapons. But Sera already looks bored, so he keeps the rest of his reminisce to himself.

 

"How grim." Vivienne said with a frown, prodding at the dry sand with the bottom of her staff. "It smells a bit of dead fish, don’t you think, my dear?" She asked turning to the Inquisitor. The Inquisitor only flashed her a brief smile.

Odd, such a little word had cut into the heart of him. He glances between his companions, and takes a shaky breath, steady himself.

Grim, the tall grim man. Blond man, who had spoken as many words as he had toes.  _ Well, more words than that now he’s lost a toe after one particularly bitter night in the Empire de Lion _ , he though rubbing across the stubble on his chin thoughtfully.

The whispers had followed the quiet man, everything from an escaped lord’s, the brave chieftain of his own little kingdom searching for a cure for his wife’s illness and even an on the run serial killer who’d cut out the tongues of his victims. He’s laughed his head off when he heard the rumours, but now - he could barely find it in him to smile.

 

Scout Harding smiled and shook her head at the little group, the torrential rain pouring down all around her. She pulled her hood down tighter around her face, and for just a moment he was reminded of Rocky. The little dwarf had always seemed underfoot, but maybe it was his qunari height that made him -  _ over-foot _ \- he sighs.

And turned away and tried to forget about him, push back the remember to that dark corner of his mind. But the facts rolled forwards like the unforgiving waves that afternoon on the Storm Coast. Rocky’d left Orzammar, found the Chargers in some pub on the Imperial Highway and had managed to ingratiate himself without him really realising what was happening. It was only two months later when he’d realised the dwarf had stuck with Chargers that he made him one of his boys.  

He suddenly found himself on the floor, not knowing when he’d fallen down. The Inquisitor gave him a raised eyebrow and offered a hand. He shook his head with a smile and pulled himself to his feet and wiped the black dirt of his hands and the thought of  _ Gaatlok _ , Rocky’d been fruitlessly trying to make the explosive glory-death-earth.

 

He watches as Solas strikes down a man with a flash of blue magic. And the body drops to the ground with a thump, there is a giant red shard sticking out of his back. It’s faintly pulsing, and he can feel the heat radiating off it in sickening toxic waves when he gets too close. He pulls back his teeth in a snarl at the fallen enemy. But it’s too late and the pulsing red lyrium has brought back a flash of memory, unwanted and unwelcome.

"I’m an archer," she insisted with a stubborn, reproachful look, "the red crystal just helps me aim," Dalish, she’d said her name was. He’d raised his remaining good eyebow and considered introducing himself as  _ qunari.  _ But he’d shrugged as he saw her nervously tugging at her sleeve and trying to push her staff behind her back. The qun wouldn’t approve of the mage,  _ but he was hardly in Par Vollen now, was he? _ He’d laughed and watched as she’d let out a noticeable sigh of relief, even the incomprehensible green lines on her face had relaxed.

He’d liked Dalish, she’d been one of the first recruits to his boys, and she’d kept the boys together acting like the Keeper she’d left.

With an angry booted foot, he kicks at the glowing red lyrium, and clenches his jaw, and stalks away from the fallen foe.  _ Maybe he can get Cassandra to hit him again? _

 

"- the horn that didn’t blow. I knew the one-eyed bastard would betray us." Says the human youth, all too clever, all too spirit, too close to a demon with his twisty knifes ready behind his back.  _ He claims he’s Compassion _ , but his words cut deeper than they should. He glares daggers into the other man, just a boy really, he thinks after a long moment.

He wants to help, to help he’s got to cut the hurt away. But cutting the hurt away, hurts.  _ Ahhhhh.  _

Stitches, he thinks, Stitches might have patched him up better. The first night he’d seen him in a brothel handing out potions to the working persons, Stitches’d turned to him and said, "next time your cut your face like that, I’ll keep your pretty for the girls."

A long chat and a couple of drinks later, Stitches had joined their little band and he’d even been true to his word. He remembered the one night when the age-old wound in his leg had festered after a particularly rough week. He’d cut out the decay and probably saved the leg, even designed him a brace to protect him from future damage.

In his dreams,  _ he always blows the horn _ .

 

Sometimes when Dorian speaks, he hears it.  _ The ‘Vint accent _ . It’s a roll of the ‘r’s or a particular expression not commonly found in the South. He finds himself, blindsided without his lieutenant, who watched his flank.

Krem, the first of his boys.  _ Cremisius Aclassi _ . It’s been years since he’s thought of them, even considered that ill-fated night on the Storm Coast. He’s not sure what’s brought back the memory, but he feels hollow, bitter and so empty without Krem.

He twisted his neck to examine his whereabouts, some fancy apartments in Val Royeaux. He’s meant to be meeting some Ben-Hassrath tomorrow, but all he can think is that all that is left of Krem is the twinge of caught nerve that shoot pain up his neck every time he wants to look to the left. He misses him, of course he misses him.  _ But what really is there to do about that? _

Dorian asks him if he’s alright and he hardens, steels the muscles beneath his skin, of course he is.

 

His name was  _ The Iron Bull _ , he tells the grim faced qunari staring back at him in the sheet of polished bronze. He was a mindless weapon, an implement of destruction. And the last of the men to be sacrificed that night.

But he is gone, and he was gone the moment he obeyed the Inquisitor’s orders and allowed the Bull’s men to be slaughtered.

He is Hissrad,  _ the liar, the spy _ . The man who could play at  _ tal-vas-fucking-hoth _ without ever crossing the line. The man who will do his duty, without question or pause. He is a follower of the qun, a  _ qunari _ , he tells himself. He will follow the orders given to him by the Ben Hassrath without question. But maybe he will need to turn himself in to the re-educators. Maybe - that means he should.

The one eyed qunari stares back in the mirror, " _ Hiss-fucking-rad _ ." He says at the reflection in a dull rumble.

  
  
  



End file.
